Rite of Wrongs (3 page)

Elementary school got out at three o’clock. Middle school at three thirty. She’d have Vince call the station, find out from the doctor which schools his children attended, then bring them to their father there. That problem solved, she made her way back to the first floor and the rest.

The master suite was located downstairs. Miriam spent some time looking through the victim’s belongings but found very little worth noting. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed. The jewelry box on the vanity dresser held more than a few pieces with precious stones. Three gold watches sat on the doctor’s chest, along with a money clip thick with bills.

The deceased’s purse and cell phone were in the kitchen, and Miriam wanted to get her hands on those ASAP. She returned to the front of the house, catching a glimpse through the kitchen windows of Ballard in the backyard with the dog, and found the tech in the living room.

“Karen, there’s a diary on the bedside table in the master suite. Can you put a rush on printing that? I’d like to make a copy as soon as I can.”

“Sure thing, Detective.” Karen was crouched low, photographing the footprints fading from red to brown and leading from the entryway across the living-room carpet. She’d set up bright-yellow evidence markers along the path.

Dress shoes, Miriam decided. The husband’s, most likely. She thought she saw a sliver of glass. “And the purse and cell phone, too.”

“Will do.”

“Call me or Ballard if you need anything else,” she said, heading out to talk to Vince about the children. “We’ll be at the station with the husband.”

Wondering what kind of sicko was motivated by the Bible to kill.

F
OUR

Monday, 2:30 p.m.

Back at the station, Miriam stopped at the restroom to wash her hands and face. She needed a shower. Yoga didn’t wear so well two hours later, but there was nothing to be done save for fixing her hair.

Pulling the elastic band from her ponytail, she grabbed the comb she kept in her locker. As she worked it through the thick mass, she gathered her wits, along with the list of questions she needed to ask the grieving man. Then she bound up her hair again, swiped deodorant under her arms, and headed off to make the best of a really shitty situation.

At the door to the soft-interview room, she silently counted to ten. It was a calming trick, a focusing trick. It allowed her to get her bearings. She’d learned it from her ex-partner and wondered if he had use for it in his new line of work.

Or if being employed now by God, he relied solely on prayer.

Ballard arriving at her side brought her back to the present. He gave her a single nod, indicating he was ready. She turned the knob and walked into the room. Ballard followed, standing behind a chair in the near corner.

“Dr. Gardner. Jeff. I’m Detective Miriam Rome. This is Detective Ike Ballard.” She closed the door behind them. “Please accept our condolences. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

Dr. Jeff Gardner reminded Miriam of a crane. Wearing a polo, sandals, and blue jeans, his dress clothes now in the hands of Karen Sosa, he sat perched on the edge of the room’s sofa, his knees knobby, his legs gangly and bent as if in preflight.

His elbows were tucked close to his body, bony like his knuckles and hair-dusted wrists. His arms were long, and capable of gaining lift should he and his long neck decide to move.

She wasn’t sure he ever would. He appeared frozen, arrested, his life brought to a screeching, bloody halt.

She pulled a rocking chair from a decorative side table, where a leather-bound Jane Austen book sat on top of one by James Patterson. As if anyone waiting in this room to be interviewed would have a desire to read.

Legs pressed together, Miriam opened her traveler’s notebook on one thigh. “I know you told the patrol officer what you found when you arrived home, but can you walk me through it? I may have questions in addition to those Sergeant Vince already asked.”

Dr. Gardner’s chin came up slowly. His glasses had slid nearly to the tip of his nose, and a shock of hair fell to cover his forehead. He left everything where it was. “I came home for lunch. It’s our time. Gina’s and mine. Breakfast is so busy getting everyone out the door, and dinner is filled with homework questions. Our children—”

That was when he finally stood, his angled legs locking into place, his arm-wings poised to propel him to the door. “I need to go to the school. I need to get our children. I can’t have them getting off the bus and finding their home a crime scene.”

He was at least six feet four. Ike Ballard was six two and broad-shouldered. He held up a hand that would have no trouble palming a basketball. “Hold on now, Dr. Gardner—”

Miriam kept her voice calm and inclined her head for Ballard to guide the doctor back to his seat. “Jeff, we’ve got an officer picking them up. They’ll be here soon.” And since she hadn’t learned them from Vince, she said, “Why don’t you tell me their names.”

“Eloise, Imogene, and Theodore.” He twisted his hands together. “Eloise is nine, Imogene eight. Theodore’s seven.”

She rolled the ages around. Nine, eight, seven. Yet Vince had given Gina Gardner’s age as fifty-five. Miriam looked up at Ballard as he left the room to check on the kids’ ETA.

Once he was gone, she took a deep breath. “Tell me about your wife, Dr. Gardner.”

“I told the other officer—”

“I know.” But the more he talked, the more he would say, and the more she’d have to work with. “Your children are fairly young.”

He nodded briskly. “Gina is ten years older than I am. Eloise was . . . unplanned, but turned out to be the biggest joy of our life.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple like a whole boiled egg, choking him. “We decided we wanted more children. To give Eloise siblings. As long as they were healthy, and Gina wasn’t at risk.”

And if they hadn’t been healthy? If Gina
had
been at risk
? The questions remained on the tip of Miriam’s tongue while she asked another. “What about her family? Brothers or sisters? Cousins? Parents? Was she close to them? Is there anyone you would like us to contact for you?”

“She doesn’t know her family,” he said, rubbing his palms down his thighs. “She grew up in foster care.”

Hmm.
Clicking the end of her pen, Miriam asked, “How old was she when she was taken from her parents?”

“Five,” he answered, and she made the note, circling the words
foster care
and thinking about who in social services she’d need to tap for records that old.

“Do you know the circumstances?”

The doctor shook his head and buried his face in his hands. “She never talks about it. I’m not even sure she knows about it.”

Miriam set that aside and moved on. “Your marriage. Was it the first for both of you?”

He nodded again.

“What was her maiden name?”

“White. Gina White.”

“Was that her parents’ name?”

“I don’t know. I guess so.”

“Is your wife . . .” She stopped herself, started again. “
Was
your wife involved in the PTA? Are your children enrolled in dance or gymnastics classes, or sports leagues? Anyplace where she would interact with the parents of other children?”

“Of course. Our children are Gina’s life. We give them every opportunity. Imogene plays the piano. Eloise studies ballet. Theodore plays soccer and takes fencing lessons. Gina has served as room mother for all of them at one time or another. She volunteers to chaperone field trips. Takes cupcakes and cookies to class parties.”

He really needed to stop talking about his wife in the present tense. Miriam reached back to lift her damp hair from her neck. “Did she ever mention getting into arguments with anyone at school? Other parents? Teachers? Maybe she bumped another car in the parking lot?”

Finally pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Dr. Gardner blinked, then narrowed his gaze almost angrily. “You think someone would write Scripture on the wall in her blood because of a fender bender?”

Stranger things had been known to happen, but Miriam pressed forward. “Have any of your kids been bullied? Or had a falling out with friends?”

His frown deepened. “What are you saying?”

“I’m asking—”

“Our kids are in elementary school, Detective. They’re not even teens.”

She let that go. He didn’t need to know the things she’d seen young kids do. She clicked off her pen, used it to scratch at her hairline behind her ear. “So, you or your wife never had arguments with any of their friends’ parents?”

“No. Never.” He was adamant.

Unlikely, but okay. “What about you and your wife’s friends?”

He shook his head, kept shaking it, as if dislodging mites or fleas. “I don’t even understand what you’re asking me. Gina gets along with everyone she meets.”

Looking down at her notebook, Miriam weighed several questions but wasn’t sure she was going to get anything solid from the doctor at this point. His emotional wreckage was understandable, and she really hated to push, but time was everything when it came to murder.

“Tell me about your practice,” she said, switching gears again, hoping to cover as many angles as she could before he completely shut down. “Have you or your partners received any threats?”

“It’s a pediatric clinic, for God’s sake. It’s not like we perform abortions.” And then he buried his face in his hands, and he sobbed, bent and broken, his pain causing a sharp hitch of another sort in Miriam’s chest.

She gave him a moment to compose himself, drawing a series of tiny boxes down her notebook’s next blank page. Later, she’d go through her notes and the evidence collected and jot down every single question that came to mind. A line for each, and each easily checked off as answered. Those left open moved to a new list at the end of the day.

It was how she kept her thoughts organized. It was also how she kept from losing them in a jumble of notes. Balancing as many cases as she did . . .

“Do your children have a nanny or sitter, or tutors who come to the house?”

He shook his head, then nodded. “We have a sitter when Gina and I go out. A neighbor’s daughter. She’s fourteen, I think.”

“Were you having any repairs done?” If necessary, Miriam would come back to the sitter later and jotted herself an appropriate note.

He answered with another shake of his head.

“Anything being installed? Satellite TV, maybe?” More shaking. “Did you have a service call of any sort scheduled for today?” The shaking was vigorous now, Dr. Gardner’s hair flying. “Any reason for a workman to have come inside?”

“Detective Rome?”

She looked up at Ballard’s question. She hadn’t even heard the door open. “Yes?”

“The kids are outside.” He nodded toward the doctor. “We should probably give Dr. Gardner a few minutes before they come in.”

Blowing out a slow breath, Miriam slipped her pen into the loop on her notebook, then stood. She hated the interruption. She could do this all day. But Ballard was right. The horror show had only just begun.

“Thank you, Detective. And thank you, Dr. Gardner.” She offered the grieving man her hand, then when he paid her no mind, let it fall. “We’ll speak again soon.”

F
IVE

Monday, 6:00 p.m.

Dot Lacey stared out through the big bay window at the lush green lawn and watched her children toss the Frisbee she’d picked up while she’d been in Wackers buying toilet paper.

The red disk sailed across the yard. Someone jumped for it. She squinted but couldn’t see who, then someone else leaped even higher, and they fell together, wrestling until one of the boys ran up and grabbed it away. He walked off, taking the Frisbee with him, yelling back at the others. Then another of the children shoved him, shutting him up.

Oh, how she wished her eyes hadn’t failed her. And that she’d purchased two of the toys. One red and one blue. And she should’ve allowed the children to keep the dog who’d followed them home from school. Dogs loved Frisbees, too. The next time she was in Wackers, she’d buy a Frisbee for everyone, and extras for any dogs who happened by.

There was no such thing as too many Frisbees. Or too many dogs. Or children.

She loved her children, every one of them, and wished so often she’d been blessed with more, but those no-good husbands of hers—

“Miss Dottie?”

She closed her eyes, hearing her name, frowning as another voice, one that sounded so far away, reached her, too:
“And in local news, Gina Gardner, wife of Union Park pediatrician Dr. Jeff Gardner, was found dead of an apparent homicide in their Copper Acres home.”

“Miss Dottie?” The first voice again. “Are you ready for dinner? We’ve got mashed potatoes and Swedish meatballs on the menu tonight.”

She blinked. The yard was not hers. There were no children playing Frisbee, only useless old people stumbling here and there, with their canes and their walkers, or being moved around in wheelchairs by family members waiting for them to die.

“Kurt?” She looked at her caretaker where he’d squatted in front of her, his hand on her chair’s big wheel. “Who is Gina Gardner?”

“I don’t know.” His dark hair was too long. It was falling into his eyes. Had his mother never taught him about hygiene? “Where did you hear that name?”

“There.” She pointed over his shoulder toward the TV. It was as big as a movie screen where it hung on the wall. There was bright-yellow tape and a reporter wearing too much makeup. The words scrolling across the bottom were too blurry to read, but as bad as her vision was, Dot’s ears were just peachy. “On the news. Gina Gardner.”

Kurt moved behind her, unlocked the brakes on her wheelchair, and turned her away from the news. “I’m not sure.”

“They said she was dead of homicide.” She looked back as he put her chair in motion. His whiskers were so scraggly beneath his chin. She really should go see his mother and have a talk with her. What kind of mother let her son leave the house without shaving? “Isn’t that murder?”

“It is, yes.” He frowned, a silver ring glinting in his eyebrow. “Let’s get you to dinner before your food gets cold. Mashed potatoes just aren’t any good otherwise.”

“Poor thing. Such a hard life. Those parents of hers, giving her away like so much stale bread. I don’t want dinner. I want to see my children,” she said, pounding her fist on the pillow in her lap. “I want to buy new Frisbees and go to the shelter for a dog. Can we leave now? Before all the puppies are gone? I think Wackers is having a sale.”

“We’ll talk about it after dinner, okay?” He pushed her past the table where Donald Parsons was playing chess, and turned her from the common room into the cafeteria. Betty Lampley looked up from her plate and waved. She probably wanted to talk about her bowels again. All she ever talked about was her bowels.

“All right, dear,” she said to Kurt. But there wasn’t anything to talk about.

It was too late for Gina. Greedy, thankless bitch. Dot would just have to do what she could to help Kurt instead.

Young people. Did they never think about consequences?

She waited until he’d pushed her to sit next to Betty. “And I know it’s none of my business, but if you want to wear a ring, you should do so on your finger. If you tripped and fell while running, that one might tear your eyebrow. It might even poke out your eye.”